John Masefield
I cannot tell their wonder nor make knownMagic that once thrilled through me to the bone;But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale,Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale,Pour their heart’s blood to flourish one green leaf,Follow some Helen for her gift of grief,And fail in what they mean, whate’er they do:You should have seen, man cannot tell to youThe beauty of the ships of that my city.That beauty now is spoiled by the sea’s pity;For one may haunt the pier a score of times,Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes,Yet never see those proud ones swaying homeWith mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam,Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine,Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine,As once, long since, when all the docks were filledWith that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.Yet, though their splendor may have ceased to beEach played her sovereign part in making me;Now I return my thanks with heart and lipsFor the great queenliness of all those ships.And first the first bright memory, still so clear,An autumn evening in a golden year,When in the last lit moments before darkTheChepica, a steel-gray lovely barque,Came to an anchor near us on the flood,Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.Then come so many ships that I could fillThree docks with their fair hulls remembered still,Each with her special memory’s special grace,Riding the sea, making the waves give placeTo delicate high beauty; man’s best strength,Noble in every line in all their length.Ailsa,Genista, ships, with long jibbooms,TheWandererwith great beauty and strange dooms,Liverpool(mightiest then) superb, sublime,TheCaliforniahuge, as slow as time.TheCopleyswift, the perfectJ. T. North,The loveliest barque my city has sent forth,DaintyJohn Lockettwell remembered yet,The splendidArguswith her skysail set,StalwartDrumcliff, white-blocked, majesticSierras,Divine bright ships, the water’s standard-bearers;Melpomene,Euphrosyne, and their sweetSea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet;Corunna(in whom my friend died) and the oldLong since lovedEsmeraldalong since sold.Centurionpassed in Rio,Glaucusspoken,Aladdinburnt, theBidstonwater-broken,Yola, in whom my friend sailed,Dawpooltrim,Fierce-bowedEgeriaplunging to the swim,Stanmorewide-sterned, sweetCupica, tallBard,Queen in all harbors with her moon-sail yard.Though I tell many, there must still be others,McVickar Marshall’s ships and Fernie Brothers’,Lochs,Counties,Shires,Drums, the countless linesWhose house-flags all were once familiar signsAt high main-trucks on Mersey’s windy waysWhen sunlight made the wind-white water blaze.Their names bring back old mornings, when the docksShone with their house-flags and their painted blocks,Their raking masts below the Custom HouseAnd all the marvellous beauty of their bows.Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers,Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers,Umbria,Etruria, noble, still at sea,The grandest, then, that man had brought to be.Majestic,City of Paris,City of Rome,Forever jealous racers, out and home.TheAlfred Holt’sblue smoke-stacks down the stream,The fairLoandawith her bows a-cream.Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners,The marks and styles of countless ship-designers,TheMagdalena,Puno,Potosi,LostCotopaxi, all well known to me.These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory,Her memory of old song or comrade’s story,Still in my mind the image of life’s need,Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed.“They built great ships and sailed them,†sounds most brave,Whatever arts we have or fail to have.I touch my country’s mind, I come to gripsWith half her purpose, thinking of these ships:That art untouched by softness, all that lineDrawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine;That nobleness and grandeur, all that beautyBorn of a manly life and bitter duty;That splendor of fine bows which yet could standThe shock of rollers never checked by land;That art of masts, sail-crowded, fit to break,Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake;The life demanded by that art, the keenEye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean.They are grander things than all the art of towns;Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns.They are my country’s line, her great art doneBy strong brains laboring on the thought unwon.They mark our passage as a race of men—Earth will not see such ships as those again.
I cannot tell their wonder nor make knownMagic that once thrilled through me to the bone;But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale,Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale,Pour their heart’s blood to flourish one green leaf,Follow some Helen for her gift of grief,And fail in what they mean, whate’er they do:You should have seen, man cannot tell to youThe beauty of the ships of that my city.That beauty now is spoiled by the sea’s pity;For one may haunt the pier a score of times,Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes,Yet never see those proud ones swaying homeWith mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam,Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine,Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine,As once, long since, when all the docks were filledWith that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.Yet, though their splendor may have ceased to beEach played her sovereign part in making me;Now I return my thanks with heart and lipsFor the great queenliness of all those ships.And first the first bright memory, still so clear,An autumn evening in a golden year,When in the last lit moments before darkTheChepica, a steel-gray lovely barque,Came to an anchor near us on the flood,Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.Then come so many ships that I could fillThree docks with their fair hulls remembered still,Each with her special memory’s special grace,Riding the sea, making the waves give placeTo delicate high beauty; man’s best strength,Noble in every line in all their length.Ailsa,Genista, ships, with long jibbooms,TheWandererwith great beauty and strange dooms,Liverpool(mightiest then) superb, sublime,TheCaliforniahuge, as slow as time.TheCopleyswift, the perfectJ. T. North,The loveliest barque my city has sent forth,DaintyJohn Lockettwell remembered yet,The splendidArguswith her skysail set,StalwartDrumcliff, white-blocked, majesticSierras,Divine bright ships, the water’s standard-bearers;Melpomene,Euphrosyne, and their sweetSea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet;Corunna(in whom my friend died) and the oldLong since lovedEsmeraldalong since sold.Centurionpassed in Rio,Glaucusspoken,Aladdinburnt, theBidstonwater-broken,Yola, in whom my friend sailed,Dawpooltrim,Fierce-bowedEgeriaplunging to the swim,Stanmorewide-sterned, sweetCupica, tallBard,Queen in all harbors with her moon-sail yard.Though I tell many, there must still be others,McVickar Marshall’s ships and Fernie Brothers’,Lochs,Counties,Shires,Drums, the countless linesWhose house-flags all were once familiar signsAt high main-trucks on Mersey’s windy waysWhen sunlight made the wind-white water blaze.Their names bring back old mornings, when the docksShone with their house-flags and their painted blocks,Their raking masts below the Custom HouseAnd all the marvellous beauty of their bows.Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers,Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers,Umbria,Etruria, noble, still at sea,The grandest, then, that man had brought to be.Majestic,City of Paris,City of Rome,Forever jealous racers, out and home.TheAlfred Holt’sblue smoke-stacks down the stream,The fairLoandawith her bows a-cream.Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners,The marks and styles of countless ship-designers,TheMagdalena,Puno,Potosi,LostCotopaxi, all well known to me.These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory,Her memory of old song or comrade’s story,Still in my mind the image of life’s need,Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed.“They built great ships and sailed them,†sounds most brave,Whatever arts we have or fail to have.I touch my country’s mind, I come to gripsWith half her purpose, thinking of these ships:That art untouched by softness, all that lineDrawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine;That nobleness and grandeur, all that beautyBorn of a manly life and bitter duty;That splendor of fine bows which yet could standThe shock of rollers never checked by land;That art of masts, sail-crowded, fit to break,Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake;The life demanded by that art, the keenEye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean.They are grander things than all the art of towns;Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns.They are my country’s line, her great art doneBy strong brains laboring on the thought unwon.They mark our passage as a race of men—Earth will not see such ships as those again.
I cannot tell their wonder nor make knownMagic that once thrilled through me to the bone;But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale,Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale,Pour their heart’s blood to flourish one green leaf,Follow some Helen for her gift of grief,And fail in what they mean, whate’er they do:You should have seen, man cannot tell to youThe beauty of the ships of that my city.
I cannot tell their wonder nor make known
Magic that once thrilled through me to the bone;
But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale,
Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale,
Pour their heart’s blood to flourish one green leaf,
Follow some Helen for her gift of grief,
And fail in what they mean, whate’er they do:
You should have seen, man cannot tell to you
The beauty of the ships of that my city.
That beauty now is spoiled by the sea’s pity;For one may haunt the pier a score of times,Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes,Yet never see those proud ones swaying homeWith mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam,Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine,Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine,As once, long since, when all the docks were filledWith that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.
That beauty now is spoiled by the sea’s pity;
For one may haunt the pier a score of times,
Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes,
Yet never see those proud ones swaying home
With mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam,
Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine,
Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine,
As once, long since, when all the docks were filled
With that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.
Yet, though their splendor may have ceased to beEach played her sovereign part in making me;Now I return my thanks with heart and lipsFor the great queenliness of all those ships.
Yet, though their splendor may have ceased to be
Each played her sovereign part in making me;
Now I return my thanks with heart and lips
For the great queenliness of all those ships.
And first the first bright memory, still so clear,An autumn evening in a golden year,When in the last lit moments before darkTheChepica, a steel-gray lovely barque,Came to an anchor near us on the flood,Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.
And first the first bright memory, still so clear,
An autumn evening in a golden year,
When in the last lit moments before dark
TheChepica, a steel-gray lovely barque,
Came to an anchor near us on the flood,
Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.
Then come so many ships that I could fillThree docks with their fair hulls remembered still,Each with her special memory’s special grace,Riding the sea, making the waves give placeTo delicate high beauty; man’s best strength,Noble in every line in all their length.Ailsa,Genista, ships, with long jibbooms,TheWandererwith great beauty and strange dooms,Liverpool(mightiest then) superb, sublime,TheCaliforniahuge, as slow as time.TheCopleyswift, the perfectJ. T. North,The loveliest barque my city has sent forth,DaintyJohn Lockettwell remembered yet,The splendidArguswith her skysail set,StalwartDrumcliff, white-blocked, majesticSierras,Divine bright ships, the water’s standard-bearers;Melpomene,Euphrosyne, and their sweetSea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet;Corunna(in whom my friend died) and the oldLong since lovedEsmeraldalong since sold.Centurionpassed in Rio,Glaucusspoken,Aladdinburnt, theBidstonwater-broken,Yola, in whom my friend sailed,Dawpooltrim,Fierce-bowedEgeriaplunging to the swim,Stanmorewide-sterned, sweetCupica, tallBard,Queen in all harbors with her moon-sail yard.
Then come so many ships that I could fill
Three docks with their fair hulls remembered still,
Each with her special memory’s special grace,
Riding the sea, making the waves give place
To delicate high beauty; man’s best strength,
Noble in every line in all their length.
Ailsa,Genista, ships, with long jibbooms,
TheWandererwith great beauty and strange dooms,
Liverpool(mightiest then) superb, sublime,
TheCaliforniahuge, as slow as time.
TheCopleyswift, the perfectJ. T. North,
The loveliest barque my city has sent forth,
DaintyJohn Lockettwell remembered yet,
The splendidArguswith her skysail set,
StalwartDrumcliff, white-blocked, majesticSierras,
Divine bright ships, the water’s standard-bearers;
Melpomene,Euphrosyne, and their sweet
Sea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet;
Corunna(in whom my friend died) and the old
Long since lovedEsmeraldalong since sold.
Centurionpassed in Rio,Glaucusspoken,
Aladdinburnt, theBidstonwater-broken,
Yola, in whom my friend sailed,Dawpooltrim,
Fierce-bowedEgeriaplunging to the swim,
Stanmorewide-sterned, sweetCupica, tallBard,
Queen in all harbors with her moon-sail yard.
Though I tell many, there must still be others,McVickar Marshall’s ships and Fernie Brothers’,Lochs,Counties,Shires,Drums, the countless linesWhose house-flags all were once familiar signsAt high main-trucks on Mersey’s windy waysWhen sunlight made the wind-white water blaze.Their names bring back old mornings, when the docksShone with their house-flags and their painted blocks,Their raking masts below the Custom HouseAnd all the marvellous beauty of their bows.
Though I tell many, there must still be others,
McVickar Marshall’s ships and Fernie Brothers’,
Lochs,Counties,Shires,Drums, the countless lines
Whose house-flags all were once familiar signs
At high main-trucks on Mersey’s windy ways
When sunlight made the wind-white water blaze.
Their names bring back old mornings, when the docks
Shone with their house-flags and their painted blocks,
Their raking masts below the Custom House
And all the marvellous beauty of their bows.
Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers,Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers,Umbria,Etruria, noble, still at sea,The grandest, then, that man had brought to be.Majestic,City of Paris,City of Rome,Forever jealous racers, out and home.
Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers,
Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers,
Umbria,Etruria, noble, still at sea,
The grandest, then, that man had brought to be.
Majestic,City of Paris,City of Rome,
Forever jealous racers, out and home.
TheAlfred Holt’sblue smoke-stacks down the stream,The fairLoandawith her bows a-cream.Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners,The marks and styles of countless ship-designers,TheMagdalena,Puno,Potosi,LostCotopaxi, all well known to me.
TheAlfred Holt’sblue smoke-stacks down the stream,
The fairLoandawith her bows a-cream.
Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners,
The marks and styles of countless ship-designers,
TheMagdalena,Puno,Potosi,
LostCotopaxi, all well known to me.
These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory,Her memory of old song or comrade’s story,Still in my mind the image of life’s need,Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed.“They built great ships and sailed them,†sounds most brave,Whatever arts we have or fail to have.I touch my country’s mind, I come to gripsWith half her purpose, thinking of these ships:That art untouched by softness, all that lineDrawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine;That nobleness and grandeur, all that beautyBorn of a manly life and bitter duty;That splendor of fine bows which yet could standThe shock of rollers never checked by land;That art of masts, sail-crowded, fit to break,Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake;The life demanded by that art, the keenEye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean.They are grander things than all the art of towns;Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns.They are my country’s line, her great art doneBy strong brains laboring on the thought unwon.They mark our passage as a race of men—Earth will not see such ships as those again.
These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory,
Her memory of old song or comrade’s story,
Still in my mind the image of life’s need,
Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed.
“They built great ships and sailed them,†sounds most brave,
Whatever arts we have or fail to have.
I touch my country’s mind, I come to grips
With half her purpose, thinking of these ships:
That art untouched by softness, all that line
Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine;
That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty
Born of a manly life and bitter duty;
That splendor of fine bows which yet could stand
The shock of rollers never checked by land;
That art of masts, sail-crowded, fit to break,
Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake;
The life demanded by that art, the keen
Eye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean.
They are grander things than all the art of towns;
Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns.
They are my country’s line, her great art done
By strong brains laboring on the thought unwon.
They mark our passage as a race of men—
Earth will not see such ships as those again.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,With a cargo of ivory,And apes and peacocks,Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,With a cargo of diamonds,Emeralds, amethysts,Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke-stack,Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,With a cargo of Tyne coal,Road-rails, pig-lead,Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,With a cargo of ivory,And apes and peacocks,Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,With a cargo of diamonds,Emeralds, amethysts,Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke-stack,Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,With a cargo of Tyne coal,Road-rails, pig-lead,Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,With a cargo of ivory,And apes and peacocks,Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,With a cargo of diamonds,Emeralds, amethysts,Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke-stack,Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,With a cargo of Tyne coal,Road-rails, pig-lead,Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke-stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
I heard the wind all day,And what it was trying to say.I heard the wind all nightRave as it ran to fight;After the wind the rain,And then the wind againRunning across the hillAs it runs still.And all day long the seaWould not let the land be,But all night heaped her sandOn to the land;I saw her glimmer whiteAll through the night,Tossing the horrid hairStill tossing there.And all day long the stoneFelt how the wind was blown;And all night long the rockStood the sea’s shock;While, from the window, ILooked out, and wondered why,Why at such lengthSuch force should fight such strength.
I heard the wind all day,And what it was trying to say.I heard the wind all nightRave as it ran to fight;After the wind the rain,And then the wind againRunning across the hillAs it runs still.And all day long the seaWould not let the land be,But all night heaped her sandOn to the land;I saw her glimmer whiteAll through the night,Tossing the horrid hairStill tossing there.And all day long the stoneFelt how the wind was blown;And all night long the rockStood the sea’s shock;While, from the window, ILooked out, and wondered why,Why at such lengthSuch force should fight such strength.
I heard the wind all day,And what it was trying to say.I heard the wind all nightRave as it ran to fight;After the wind the rain,And then the wind againRunning across the hillAs it runs still.
I heard the wind all day,
And what it was trying to say.
I heard the wind all night
Rave as it ran to fight;
After the wind the rain,
And then the wind again
Running across the hill
As it runs still.
And all day long the seaWould not let the land be,But all night heaped her sandOn to the land;I saw her glimmer whiteAll through the night,Tossing the horrid hairStill tossing there.
And all day long the sea
Would not let the land be,
But all night heaped her sand
On to the land;
I saw her glimmer white
All through the night,
Tossing the horrid hair
Still tossing there.
And all day long the stoneFelt how the wind was blown;And all night long the rockStood the sea’s shock;While, from the window, ILooked out, and wondered why,Why at such lengthSuch force should fight such strength.
And all day long the stone
Felt how the wind was blown;
And all night long the rock
Stood the sea’s shock;
While, from the window, I
Looked out, and wondered why,
Why at such length
Such force should fight such strength.
What am I, Life? A thing of watery saltHeld in cohesion by unresting cells,Which work they know not why, which never halt,Myself unwitting where their Master dwells.I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spinA world which uses me as I use them;Nor do I know which end or which beginNor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn.So, like a marvel in a marvel set,I answer to the vast, as wave by waveThe sea of air goes over, dry or wet,Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave,Or the great sun comes forth: this myriad ITingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.
What am I, Life? A thing of watery saltHeld in cohesion by unresting cells,Which work they know not why, which never halt,Myself unwitting where their Master dwells.I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spinA world which uses me as I use them;Nor do I know which end or which beginNor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn.So, like a marvel in a marvel set,I answer to the vast, as wave by waveThe sea of air goes over, dry or wet,Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave,Or the great sun comes forth: this myriad ITingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.
What am I, Life? A thing of watery saltHeld in cohesion by unresting cells,Which work they know not why, which never halt,Myself unwitting where their Master dwells.I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spinA world which uses me as I use them;Nor do I know which end or which beginNor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn.So, like a marvel in a marvel set,I answer to the vast, as wave by waveThe sea of air goes over, dry or wet,Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave,Or the great sun comes forth: this myriad ITingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.
What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt
Held in cohesion by unresting cells,
Which work they know not why, which never halt,
Myself unwitting where their Master dwells.
I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spin
A world which uses me as I use them;
Nor do I know which end or which begin
Nor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn.
So, like a marvel in a marvel set,
I answer to the vast, as wave by wave
The sea of air goes over, dry or wet,
Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave,
Or the great sun comes forth: this myriad I
Tingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.